


Worth Saving

by M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Athos Angst, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/M_LadyinWaiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.  Athos has good intentions, but not even the promise of fulfillment of a lifelong dream can keep him from the bottle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 2.14.15 You may believe it or not, but this story was written over the last week _before_ I saw _The Return_ this evening on live television as my very own Valentine gift to myself. While it is finished, it will only be posted in parts, since I do not currently have a beta and do my own editing in this fandom. 
> 
> Largely, this story grew out of a line in _Emilie_ – when Aramis tells her Athos will watch over her because he’s had some experience with this kind of thing. And yes, I'm certain there are 10,000 of these already, since I'm late to the fandom, but I had to try my hand at my own *first* story.

**Worth Saving**

 

The knock on the door was neither tentative nor expectant, rather, it was imperative. 

“Come.”  Tréville did not look up from the letter he was finishing, but the door opened and closed with authority.  The boot falls did not falter in the slightest, nor did they wander. They stopped in front of his desk and did not fidget. 

They were _not_ the footsteps of one of his men.

Knowing this, the Captain of the Musketeers signed and sanded the letter and put on his game face before lifting his head.  Though even these preparations could not stop his eyes widening in surprise. 

The man watching him said nothing.

Tréville, purposefully resisting the urge to rise, leaned back in his chair, propping an elbow on the arm and his chin in his hand.  “How can I help you?”

“I am—”

“I know who you are.  What do you want?”

There was an infinitesimal pause as the frosty blue eyes narrowed slightly.  “I am Athos.”  The flick of the wrist that landed the money bag on the desk was so economical as to be nearly unnoticeable.  “I wish to purchase a commission in the King’s Musketeers.”

Tréville’s blue eyes met the nobleman’s gaze directly.  “Why?” he asked without inflection.  Despite his reserve, he was curious why the finest swordsman in France - perhaps the entire Continent - had come to him instead of going directly to the king.

“My reasons are my own.”

Tréville studied the Comte de la Fère a moment longer before rising slowly.  “If you’re here to find an honorable death, sir, I don’t want you.”

Not by blink, blanche or flinch did the comte react.  “There are any number of galleries in my home I could have hanged myself from, and trice that number of pistols lying around the house.  If I wanted to be dead, I would be.”

“Drivel.”  Tréville planted his fists on the desk and leaned forward.  “I’ve seconded two good men you killed in the process of trying to kill yourself.” 

A sharp knock sounded before the door burst inward.  “Captain—”

Tréville threw up a hand, his attention never wavering from the man before him.  “For the last two years you’ve been drinking and whoring your way across the Continent, looking for someone to kill you so you don’t have to do it yourself.  I have no use for your kind in the Musketeers.  You don’t even know the meaning of the word loyalty, much less what it means to serve king and country.”

Across the desk, the comte met the captain’s stare steadily.  “You are correct in your judgment, I am beneath contempt.  But I think I have it in me to be loyal to a cause I can support.  And I would like to learn what it means to serve my country.”

No bravado, no posturing, only the gloved hands clenched tight at his sides gave any indication that this young man had just laid all his cards on the table.

“No,” Tréville said, after a considering moment.  “I think not.”  He picked up the money bag and tossed it back; it was caught with as sparse a motion as it had been tossed.  “Though I’m well aware you could go directly to the king.  Likely he would commission you instantly.”

The comte removed his hat, bowed gracefully over it, and without a word, exited the office exactly as he’d entered it, with a steady, measured pace that spoke of a man who got what he wanted.

Tréville sank back down in the desk chair.  “What is it, Aramis?”

Aramis had paced to the window and was watching the dignified retreat with interest.  “Is that who I think it is?”

“If you think it’s the Comte de la Fère, then yes.”

“The finest swordsman on the Continent and you turned him down?” Aramis glanced over his shoulder at the captain, curiosity warring with surprise. 

“He’s a hazard waiting to happen, with a death wish he’s been unable to find someone skilled enough to grant. He’s broken, Aramis; I don’t need that kind of chaos in the garrison.”  

“Broken?”  The healer was intrigued.  “How?”

“Perhaps it is only his heart, I’ve heard rumors.  But it has turned him into  …” Tréville had been about to say a monster, but he had caught a glimpse of a soul in torment behind those glacial eyes and could not bring himself to voice the words.    

“Into what?” Aramis prompted, turning back to the room as the hat with its jaunty feather disappeared from view.  The comte had strolled through the arch with more _savoir-faire_ then anyone Aramis had ever met. 

Tréville sighed, slumping in his chair again.  “A man without a soul.”

“Somehow I had acquired the idea that that was God’s provenance.”  Aramis strolled to the desk and set a hip against the edge. 

“When he has finally made his wish come true he will be God’s to do with as _He_ wishes.  While he is yet among the living, the Comte de la Fère is an undisciplined liability.”

“You do not think he is worth saving?”

Tréville put his head back.  “Aramis, you cannot take every broken thing under your wing and fix it.  Some things cannot be fixed.”

“I respectfully disagree, sir, as does God.”

“Then let God deal with him.” Tréville was not in the mood to be cajoled, though if any could do so, it would be Aramis.

“Do you think he will go to the king?”

The captain barked a laugh and straightened.  “Do you know, I don’t believe he will.”  He rose slightly, pulled the chair back under the desk and reached for his letter.  “Was there actually something you needed to tell me or did your curiosity get the best of you again?”  He folded it, wrote out the address, sanded it again, and rose to put it in the box for the messengers.  

Aramis tucked his thumbs sheepishly into his sword belt.  “Curiosity,” he admitted.  “It’s not every day one is allowed to stand in the presence of brilliance.”

Tréville’s lips twitched.  “Thank you so much.”

Aramis, with a grin, doffed his hat.  “Well, of course, sir, we do stand in the presence of brilliance every day.  This is just a … different kind of brilliance.”  He rose too, shoving a hand through his hair before replacing his hat and donning his best air of innocence.  “If there’s nothing else you need me for, I just remembered I have an errand to run.”  All the while knowing Tréville would see right through it.  It was what he liked most about the man; the captain was as honest as the day was long, with a large dose of human decency making up the core of him, and the capacity to find it in others as well, even when it might not be prominently on display. 

“Do not provoke him, Aramis.  I have no desire to identify your body when he’s done with you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.  And make certain Porthos knows it’s his duty to identify my remains if necessary.”

“Take him with you.”

“I think … perhaps this initial contact might be better received if the comte does not feel like he’s being ambushed.”

Tréville sighed again.  “You’re probably right, though for the record, I’m ordering you not to follow him.”

“He’s long gone.  How could I follow him?”

Smiling brown eyes met doubtful blue, but no further orders were forthcoming and Aramis, who had learned long ago it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, slipped quietly out the door. 

Following through on his promise, he had a word with Porthos in the stable, though not about his remains, merely his whereabouts should he not turn up again that evening, and set off in the direction that dashing black feather had disappeared. 

Aramis decided, after some consideration and without any basis for making the decision, that feather was a measure of the comte’s willingness to be saved.  Surely no man who had sold his soul to the devil wore a feather that curled so perfectly around the hat brim like that.  The Comte de la Fère could not be totally soulless. 

Though on further consideration, Aramis recalled that it had been black as ink.  As had been the entire clothing choices, except for the hat and boots.  He refused to let that stop him, however, and ducked to enter the drinking establishment closest to the garrison. 

Sure enough, as expected, his quarry had not gone far.  The hat brim shielded the neck of a half-empty bottle, there were no cups on the table and it did not rise, even after Aramis plunked two drinking vessels down on the table and himself on the bench opposite the nobleman. 

“Men have been killed for less impertinence than you have just offered me,” the hat said, the voice emerging as a soft, menacing growl. 

“When my time comes, there will be nothing I can do to stop it,” Aramis said, presuming even further as he slid the bottle from a black-gauntleted hand. 

The hat came up slowly, so slowly another man might have rabbited from the tavern sporting wet britches. 

Aramis only waited until the blue eyes found his, then offered the second cup he had filled.  “I know it takes longer, but it’s a bit more civilized.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid enough to think I care about being civilized.  So what is it you want?”

Aramis glanced around surreptitiously.  “It’s true then.  No one knows who you are?”

For just an instant the eyelids drooped slightly.  “Don’t make a mistake you won’t live to regret.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”  Aramis lifted his own glass, as though to toast and when there was no response, drank it down in one swallow before refilling it.  “Barkeep, another bottle over here!  Make it two,” he hollered.  “Why the Musketeers?  Why not the Cardinal’s Red Guard?  He would have taken you as his protégé in an instant.”

The comte just looked at him. 

“Not drunk enough to discuss it?”

“Leave now, before I run you through right here.” 

“Fascinating sound a rapier makes as it leaves the scabbard,” Aramis remarked as metal rasped against metal.  “Have you ever paid attention to it?  It sounds like an old man’s dying breath.”

“It appears you will not be dying in your bed, an old man.”  de la Fère rose as slowly as his hat had only moments ago.  “I made a polite suggestion you totally ignored.”  The point of the sword touched Aramis’ chest, denting leather.  “I wasn’t in the mood to kill anyone today, but that’s changing rapidly.  Go, boy, before I turn you into strips of leather.”

“What about a polite fencing match?”  Aramis did not flinch though he could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck.  His own personal warning sign that the situation was about to deteriorate rapidly. 

“Since you appear to know who I am, I imagine you already know I don’t fence _politely_.  Do _you_ have a death wish?” de la Fère asked pointedly. 

“No.  And I think Tréville is wrong; neither do you.”

“You know nothing about me.”  The sword tip jabbed a little harder emphasizing the point. 

Aramis crawled a little further out on the very thin limb he occupied.  “I know you weren’t lying, in Treville’s office, when you said you thought you could be loyal to a cause you could support.  That you would appreciate the opportunity to serve king and country.”

The bearded chin was down, the hat brim shadowing the expression in the intense eyes, though Aramis did not look away.  A long minute passed before he reached up, pinched the blade between his own gauntleted fingers and moved it to the tabletop. 

It hovered there for another long minute, as if still indecisive as to whether or not it was worth the effort to gut him and then rasped home again. 

“You are either a fool or God is fond of you.”

“The two are rarely mutually exclusive,” Aramis commented drily, heaving an internal sigh of relief. 

de la Fère sat back down.  “Give me that bottle.”

Aramis passed it over willingly. 

“Do you gamble like this often?”

“Gamble?”  That was more Porthos’ thing than his.  “Oh,” Aramis said, understanding.  “No.” 

But then he reconsidered.  “Wait, no, that’s not right.  I suppose I do gamble like this every day, though rarely face to face.  Ours is the meaner hazard, the sneaking and skulking that goes on in the back alleys and stews where men plot treason.  Or, occasionally, in the front halls of the palace.” 

“Why do you do it?”

“Because it’s what I’m good at.” 

“Sneaking and skulking?”

Aramis grinned ruefully.  “Well, yes, I’ve become proficient at that too, but I’m better at soldiering than at being a priest.” 

“Provocative, but I will not rise to the bait.  I have no interest in what you are, or were, or intend to be.  I let you live.  Now leave me in peace.” 

“Everyone has a story.  If you do not wish to hear mine, tell me yours.”  Aramis opened the second bottle, pulling the cork with his teeth and poured another cup for both of them, though de la Fère was still ignoring the cup.

“I did not come here to pour my heart out—”

“No,” Aramis dared to interrupt, “you came here to find a purpose.”

The eyes beneath the brim of the hat were haunted, though amusement danced through them briefly before the hat brim lowered again.  “You tramp where angels fear to tread … friend.”

There was a tentativeness to the informal address that went straight to the compassionate heart Aramis hid away from most of the world.  “Why not Richelieu?” he asked again, quietly.  “Why the Musketeers?”

“His politics would not suit me.” 

The bottle turned a full revolution upon the table top, then another, and another.  Aramis waited, an empty vessel holding in place for the vintner’s first spill.  

The bottle was drained and returned, with a thud, to the table top.  “Not even a glimmer of redemption lies in that quarter.  I would only dig the hole deeper.” 

Aramis let the confession lie between them without judgment for a long time before he spoke again. “I have never met a truthful man who did not admit to dark places in his soul.  We live in perilous times … friend.” And now there was an offer on the table.  “But we are not required to make the journey in solitude.” 

They might have been alone on a mountain top so little did the noise of the tavern penetrate the island that was their table.  Aramis found the silence that met his assertion deafening, but he had learned to listen to things other than words long ago.  He heard the cadences of the heart and knew the one across the table beat faster just at the thought of someone reaching out to touch it with consideration.  And so he waited some more.

The hat landed on the table.  The revealed eyes were wary, the hope buried so deep as to be almost invisible.  “You heard Tréville.”

Aramis heard the implied question and responded accordingly.  “He is not a man who considers his judgments infallible.” 

This, thought Aramis, as the silence stretched thinly again, was a conversation destined to be carried out between long, uncomfortable silences.  He was stirring in a man’s soul, he should expect nothing else. 

“I did not speak facetiously back there.  I _am_ beneath contempt, a man without honor … or even dignity.”

“Sometimes I think that to be a man is to be without honor.”  The words came slowly, but Aramis lifted his head and met the enigmatic gaze squarely.  “We play at politics and war without regard to those upon whom the burden of the results will fall.  A king raises taxes to pay for a war that decimates vast stretches of countryside on both sides of borders, revenue is lost in proportion to the lives and livings destroyed, and yet not one of us rises up to say stop this madness.”

“You flirt with treason.”

“And you do not?”

“It is only unlawful to duel, not treasonous.” The lift at the corner of the mouth indicating amusement did not look like it was familiar with the lips it twitched.  “Though either could get your neck stretched.”

“Every choice has a consequence.”

The bottle was empty.  de la Fère picked up the cup and drained it as well.  “If you don’t like the consequences, make different choices.”  He shoved the cup across the table and Aramis refilled it.

“In a nutshell.  Would you consider a training arrangement for the Musketeers in the interim?”

“Interim?”

“Just until Tréville sees you’re making different choices.”

“As in – training Musketeers to … sword fight?”

“There is not one among us who would not benefit from instruction from you.  I would venture to add, not one among us who would turn down an opportunity to learn from you.”

“No.”

Aramis’ face fell.  It had been brilliant plan!

“Not as the Comte de la Fère.  My name is Athos.”

“Aramis.”  His grin, as he extended a hand across the table, conveyed his pleasure in this new acquaintance.  “You know you won’t be able to keep a secret like that for long.”

de la Fère shrugged.  “I can.  I’m certain Captain Tréville can.  So the only question is – can you?”

 

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

“You’ve done what?” the Musketeer captain exploded, scattering paper work everywhere as he sprang from his chair.  Tréville got a hold of himself instantly, lowering his voice so it was barely audible as he growled, “Tell me this is one of your famous pranks, Aramis.”   

Aramis opened and closed his mouth.

Beside him, Porthos was grinning from ear to ear.  “While I’ll admit he took a bit of risk, sir, seems to me this is a brilliant solution to an untenable situation.”

“Oh, what do you know of untenable situations,” Tréville muttered, moving around the desk to pace the length of the office. His self-taught, former inhabitant of the Court of Miracles Musketeer could use the damndest words sometimes. 

“We fer sure don’t want ‘m going over to the cardinal, sir—”

“He won’t,” Aramis asserted, only to be covertly kicked in the ankle as Tréville turned to pace the other way.  

“And there ain’t a recruit in the barracks couldn’t use some advanced edification from a sword master like de la Fère.”

“Athos,” Aramis corrected, rubbing at his ankle with his other foot.  Porthos’ idea of instruction was often bruising. 

“That won’t be a secret for long,” Tréville asserted with a half snort. 

“He’s counting on us to keep his identity to ourselves, sir.”

Tréville whirled midstride.  “And what, exactly, are we counting on from him?  Besides the death and destruction he’s left in his wake across the Continent.” 

“We thought we could put it about that de la Fère is still traveling.  Whisper in a few of the gossipy ears at court.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.  But when the newspapers quit crying about the death lists de la Fère is leaving in his wake? What then”

“Whisper that he must be turnin’ over a new leaf,” Porthos offered, attempting to look repentant on Aramis’ behalf.  “And what _we’d_ be countin’ on is a troop of excellent swordsmen, sir.”

“He wants to, captain.  He wants to turn over a new leaf.” Aramis took up the plea.  “He’s desperate to escape the hole he freely admits he dug for himself, but he’s in so deep he can’t see over the top.  You know I’m a good judge of character; I don’t think you’ll regret it if we give him a hand, sir.  And I’ll take all the blame if you do.”

“Aramis, this undertaking is akin to turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse, you know that.”

It was Porthos who answered, with a considered response.  “More like uncoverin’ the silk purse that’s been there all along, sir.”

“Porthos is right, there’s a good foundation.  If _Athos_ can find his footing again, he will be an outstanding addition to the garrison, sir.”  

“I’m not so sure of the foundation.  I’ve heard his parents died while he was still young.  I have no idea who had the raising of him.”

“I can assure you there is a man of principal buried under all the dreck.  Care to wager on the outcome of this?” Aramis produced a gold coin from a coat pocket and set it spinning on the desk top.  “I say Athos will have earned his pauldron and your trust within a month.”

“You’re sure you want to waste your money this way?”  Tréville had returned to the desk and flicked the coin lightly, sending it jumping as it spun, across the desktop.  “I have more reason than you know to dislike that man, much less trust him.  I shouldn’t even be allowing this much.”

“I promise you, he is worth saving.” 

“One more thing.” Tréville pulled out the desk chair.  “Any dueling in the ranks and I’ll send you both to the gallows with him.”

“Yes, sir,” the pair answered smartly and in unison, sharing smothered grins.  They’d won the first skirmish; now to plan the rest of the battle. 

 

<i>tbc</i>


	3. Chapter 3

The Comte de la Fère started his first morning as a new instructor at the Musketeer garrison the same as he had begun mornings for the last two years.  By dunking his head in a bucket to clear away the remnants of the previous night’s over indulgence and punishing every aching muscle with a series of fencing exercises designed to reawaken sinew and tendons gone slack with drink and sleep, while lubricating joints with something other than liquor. 

Though this morning, as he had for the last ten days, he’d had to draw up his own water, figure out how to button and buckle his various accouterments, and find his own breakfast.  He had sent his servant home the day after his encounter at the Musketeer headquarters.    

He was too young to feel this damn old, though he was too old to change the habits grooved into his brain.  He bathed quickly, dressed slowly – there were a lot of buttons, he’d discovered - and all the while wondered what insanity had made him to agree to this charade.  Buckling on his sword belt, he picked up his parrying dagger, stowed it in its sheath behind his back, and clamped his hat on his head. 

Breaking his fast was actually not on his agenda today.  He did not think he could stomach more than the sip of water he’d used to rinse his mouth and scrub at his teeth with the willow bark. 

He stood, head bowed, hand on the door latch for several long moments before dredging up the courage he knew he would need to face this day.  He had only to keep a civil tongue in his head, refrain from wounding anyone too seriously, and stay out of Tréville’s way.  He had memories at least, of what it was to be a gentleman, he could draw on those for the first two if necessary.  As for the third – well, staying out of Tréville’s way could very well depend on whether or not the captain had allowed this for his own nefarious purposes.   

Whatever the case, Athos had decided if he could do it for one day, then he could do it for two. And if he could do it for two, he could do it for a week.  He just had to get through one day at a time.  He had friends here – or people he was not paying, who _said_ they were friends.  He supposed it remained to be seen whether there was any truth to their affirmations. 

He was weary to his very soul and knew if he did not find a purpose for his life soon, Tréville’s acidic commentary on his jaunt across the Continent would become a reality.  He could admit to himself now - now that a glimmer of hope had pierced the stygian blackness – that there had been a grain of truth in Tréville’s observation.  He could admit this because he had taken a good long look at himself in the mirror and acknowledged the poisonous self-doubt he had allowed to inform his thoughts and actions.  He _was_ beneath contempt, but he had not always been so, and he was being offered the chance to regain his humanity at the very least, if not pieces of his soul.

For the first time in more than two years, a sense of anticipation welled up, a desire to be part of something bigger than himself.  And, he had decided, if he found he was allowing self-deceit to draw him on again, this time he would find the courage to take himself off home, announce his guilt to all and sundry, and climb over the rail in the main gallery.  

He was finding it difficult to maintain the façade that he cared not one wit what the outcome of this experiment might be.  Inside the form of Athos, the one striding through the streets toward the garrison as though he had not a care in the world, there was nothing but quivering jelly.  Only the skeleton and the skin were in decent working order, keeping the quivering mass in, and the bones upright.

“Well hello!” 

Aramis’ voice boomed across the space and the young man bounded up from a bench at a table in the courtyard to cross to Athos as he entered the garrison through the arch. 

“Welcome to our little slice of Paris, monsieur!”  Throwing an arm around Athos’ shoulders, Aramis drew him toward the table.  “Porthos would have won if he’d allowed me to bet.  _He_ was absolutely certain you would be here.  I could not quite decide if you trusted yourself yet, to keep your word,” he said in an undertone, grinning through the recitation. 

Athos, seriously uncomfortable with the easy display of camaraderie, steeled his shoulders to stillness within the loose embrace, though he continued forward at the urging of the elbow crooked behind his neck.

“Everyone, this is our new sword master.  The assessment schedule has been posted in the common room, check your time and be sure to be back here in the courtyard where we can all watch you show off your skills.  He is called Athos, though you may call him Master when he is done with you.” 

Porthos stuffed a roll in his mouth and cocked his head just enough that Aramis got the message and dropped his arm from around the stiff shoulders.  The fingers of the left hand stretched unconsciously, the blue eyes closed briefly and the urge to step away was beaten back by force of will alone.  Porthos watched each finger close individually until the hand was a fist and the man drew a deep, slow breath, holding it just long enough that it wouldn’t gust out of him and draw attention.  The nerves steadied and the eyes cut directly to Porthos, who lifted a tankard in silent acknowledgement of a battle fought and won in the space of a few heartbeats. 

“I’m your first,” the big Musketeer announced jovially, uninhibited by the mouthful of bread he was still chewing.  “Hope you ain’t got terribly high expectations, never been much of a swordsman, ‘m much better with ‘m fists.  I like learnin’ new things though.”  Porthos had risen, dusted his hands and drawn his sword as he’d made this speech.  “But wait – where’m manners?”

“What manners?” Bastian jeered, before Porthos could get anything else out. 

Beside him, Aramis felt Athos tense as though expecting trouble.  He touched the arm attached to the hand that had instinctively wrapped around the sword grip, very lightly, so as to not startle a further reaction from the comte.  “It’s all in good fun,” he said softly, adding in a brighter, cheekier voice, “We all know Porthos has no manners.”

“Yeah?” Porthos growled, swinging his sword aggrievedly.  “And where would I have learned ‘em, pray tell?  Not from any of you, that’s for sure!”

“Well, there is that.  Certainly not Bastian, as his manners are even worse than yours.  But you were about to offer the—”  Damn!  He was going to have to stop thinking of Athos as the comte.  “Our new sword master a place at the table to break his fast, yes?” Aramis quickly covered his stumble. 

“I was.”  Porthos sheathed his sword and bowed with a courtly charm that under any other circumstances might have seemed exaggerated.  Its elegance, however, gave lie to the friendly banter and ended it amid laughing groans. 

“I have eaten already, but I thank you for the thought,” Athos lied, attempting to remember what it felt like to smile.  He rather thought the lips were supposed to do something, but they did not remember what, so he settled for following that up with the truth.  “I am ready to start when you are, Porthos.” 

“Then by all means, let’s have at it.  Jus’ promise you won’t ‘urt me too bad.” 

An area toward the back of the courtyard had been cleared for use and for the first time in his life, the Comte de la Fère – Athos now, just Athos, he had to remind himself, as he must remember to remind Aramis – went to work for someone else.  He could buy the entire city block housing the Musketeer garrison without making a dent in his monetary worth, he owned houses in five of France’s finest regions and land in twice that many. 

Today he had acquired a job and an occupation.  Two weeks ago he had acquired another house, and been genuinely amused for the first time in an age, when the landlord had demanded two month’s rent in advance, grumbling about would-be Musketeers who regularly disappeared without paying up when their service was turned down.  His Paris agent would likely dine out on that story for months, though it occurred to Athos that he could tell no one the story, not even his agent, if he really wanted to change the course of his life.  

It was a novel experience, playing at being a commoner who needed to work to earn a living.  Though on some existential level he could not have articulated, he understood that to live, he must make this play a reality. 

And so he watched and listened and played at sword fighting, for there was no one in the garrison up to his skill with the sword.  He taught where the student was willing to learn and gave just enough to those who thought they could best him to leave them thinking that next time victory would be theirs. 

It was a mentally exhausting exercise, though physically, he’d barely raised a sweat.  He was shrugging into his coat when Aramis found him again.

“Will you stay to eat with us?”  The Musketeer took the hat with the beautifully curling feather down from the peg in the post where it hung, though he did not immediately proffer it.   

It was an offer a deeply buried part of the comte would have liked to accept, but he’d been alone, and a loner, for too long.  He could be around others when his body took over his mind and he became just an extension of his sword, but not sitting among a cadre of strangers with whom he would be expected to exchange small talk.  He had never been good at small talk and now he no longer had words to spare. 

“We could eat out here,” Aramis offered, sensing the struggle, though nothing showed on the … on Athos’ face.  The man was an enigma wrapped in a question.   

Athos took the hat and decided a little honesty might grease the wheels of this creaking friendship.  “I need some privacy.”

Aramis inclined his head.  “Another time then,” he said, leaving the invitation open.  “When you have finished the evaluations, Tréville would like a report on whom you think would most benefit from further tutoring.” 

The comte looked up from where he’d been fiddling with his hat brim.  “That would not necessarily be the ones who actually need it.”  He clamped the hat on his head, adjusted the brim, and headed for the archway.

Aramis paced beside him.  “It’s a rare man who can leave another believing a lie when only a small lesson might have engendered enlightenment.”

They reached the archway before Athos paused and looked over again.  “I am not a stupid man, but I have behaved foolishly for far too long.  I was reminded today, what is to lead by example.  I have you to thank for that.” 

Briefly, and so light as to have been touched by the feather from the man’s hat, Aramis felt a hand on his shoulder. 

And the comte was gone.

 

<i>tbc</i>


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Not a medical professional, don't even play one on TV, so my apologies for any irreverent use of 17th century medical knowledge/conditions/jargon/or otherwise just plain wrong stuff._

“You can at least curse, you know,” Aramis advised, as he shoved his hair back out of his eyes yet again with the crook of an elbow.  “This is going to take awhile.”

A week – it had been a whole week before Athos’ concentration had slipped.  Fortunately _he_ had not injured anyone, though it had been a close run thing when the sting of the slash had snapped him back to his senses and instinct had brought his own rapier up for the killing blow.  He had pulled back only a hairsbreadth from murdering the youthful Musketeer. 

Athos knew himself to be his own worst enemy.  He was still drinking far too heavily; today it had fogged his mind and dulled his senses. 

“Here, maybe this’ll keep that mop outta the way.”  Porthos stripped the kerchief off his own head and Aramis straightened from where he was bent over Athos, sewing up a long, shallow cut by the light of half a dozen candles. 

Porthos ran his fingers through the thick hair, drawing it back from the high forehead and affixed the kerchief, tying it off beneath the curling wave at the back. 

“That does help, thanks.  Can you find something to wipe my hands on?  They’re getting too slippery to hold the needle and I need the wound cleaned again.  Dunk whatever you find in the boiling water.”

“He’s a devotee of that Hildegard von somethin’-or-other woman.  Boils everything,” Porthos observed as he looked around the room.

“Hildegard von Bingen,” Aramis clarified. 

“Towels in the cupboard,” Athos directed, from between clenched teeth.  “Never heard of her.”

“Not unusual.  I met her whilst studying at the abbey.  Which is to say, I studied her writings on medicine.  She lived and wrote a few centuries before us.” 

Porthos found the towels, whistled appreciatively at their luxurious thickness, and plunged one in the large kettle of steaming water on the floor close to Aramis’ feet. 

“Cooking implements by the fire in the other room. What does boiling have to do with anything?”  It hurt like a thousand bloody thorn pricks getting stitched up like this, but it was not so painful as to be debilitating and watching Porthos bungle about slamming doors and drawers open and closed while he tried to make shift for what Aramis wanted was no end amusing.

“Oh, good idea.”  Porthos disappeared out the door of the bed chamber. 

“He’s worried; it makes him clumsy. She wrote that it changed the infection rate in wounds.  I’ve seen similar results, so I make use of it.” 

“You are a pair of duennas, clucking over me like this is a death sentence when it’s barely a scratch.”

“A scratch that turned into a tear that’s now going on close to an hour to be stitched because you refused to stop when I told you to.   Instead of a clean cut, you’ve torn an assortment of jagged edges that must be put back together like puzzle pieces.  And in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re bleeding copiously.  If you’d let me stitch it straight away back at the garrison, it would have been clean and neat and done with.  Now it’s going to look like hen peckings.” 

Aramis had cleaned away the sweat and blood and grime that had mixed with the salve, and didn’t mind the further cleansing of the profusely bleeding wound, but not sewing it up immediately had increased the risk of infection tenfold. 

He was pulling out every trick he knew to keep that from happening.  “Bring a bottle as well,” he hollered for Porthos’ benefit, “don’t care what it is, so long as it’s alcohol," then muttering to himself, "stupid, should have done it at the beginning of this.” 

Porthos reappeared with a long-handled toasting fork in one hand and a bottle in the other.  He set down the bottle, fished the towel from the kettle, let it hang at the end of the fork for a few moments, then jerked if off and wrung it between his hands before handing it over to Aramis.

Athos thought it still had to be plenty hot, but the big man hardly seemed to notice. 

Aramis wiped his hands and handed the towel back to Porthos, who dunked it again, and this time, rather than wring it out, lifted and squeezed it only lightly before applying it to the wound.

This drew a hissing curse from their patient, though Athos remained still as a statue as Aramis took a second towel, soaked it with the bottle of bordeaux Athos had brought from Pinon and pressed it against the wound as Porthos lifted away the first bloody towel.    

“That hurts.”

“Then act like a human for God’s sake!  Curse, rail, yell.  Porthos cries like a baby.  I have to knock him out to sew him up.  He’d probably enjoy the opportunity to be on the proffering end of insentience.” 

Porthos’s grinning face appeared in Athos’ line of vision.  “Want I should knock ya out?”

“Thank you, I’ll pass.”

 Aramis kept the wine soaked towel pressed to the cut until the blood began to seep instead of weep.  “Was this by way of punishment?” he asked suddenly.  He had seen no overt signs of religiosity in the comte, nor were there physical signs of abuse, though not all who practiced the art of self-flagellation took it as far as scarring themselves.   

“Punishment?” Athos echoed.  “Are you asking…” he did not finish the sentence, though his eyes flicked to Aramis.  “Never mind.  Whatever you’re asking the answer is no.  This was by way stupidity.”

“What happened?”  Aramis had not been in the courtyard to witness the incident.  He’d been called from the armory to see to the wound, though Athos had allowed him only to salve and bandage it before returning to his lessons. 

“Arrogance.”

“Strangely, despite your circumstances, despite the fact you ooze an aristocratic poise from your very pores, you are the least arrogant male I know.  Try again.”  Aramis, stitching away, did not see the complete and utter surprise on Athos’ face.

Porthos did, and casually turned away so as not to discomfit their new sword master.   For despite that oozing aristocratic poise, Athos was a man who’d had his self-confidence knocked galley west.  He displayed little emotion beyond a bit of guarded response to humor, and that, Porthos had observed, was mostly to be seen in the eyes.  The man was a closed book; the Musketeer thought it could be a long time before anyone cracked his covers and stretched his spine enough to make him readable. 

The comte's chilly demeanor was mocked nightly in the mess hall, particularly by the crowd who still thought themselves far superior to the man they deemed an itinerant sword master.  It had taken every ounce of control on Porthos’ part, and a good deal of kicking under the table from Aramis, to keep his temper in check.  It angered him further that Tréville, who usually nipped anything like it in the bud, let it go on. 

It was not his business, as Aramis also kept reminding him, but Porthos was not minded to stay out of it much longer.  He did not leave his friends to suffer alone, though he had never run up against anyone as reserved as the Comte de la Fère. 

He swirled the bloody towel in the hot water with the fork before fishing it up to wring out again. 

On the bed, Athos cleared his throat, as though some obstruction had temporarily blocked his airway.  “It was arrogance,” he repeated without inflection, “I let my mind wander and thus let my guard down.”

“Personally, I think it was less about arrogance and more about being hung over.”  Aramis set the last stitch with a grateful huff and turned to rinse his hands again.  “Though I suppose there could be some arrogance in thinking your sword play in that condition is as good as ever.  It’s not, you know.  I’ve watched you when you have a clear head – you’re brilliant.  And your mind does not wander.  Hand me that salve,” he said to Porthos, “and the bandages, please.”

Porthos gave him a dry towel first, then handed over the required items.

“Brilliant,” Athos repeated.

“Brilliant,” Aramis said again, matching the inflectionless tone.  There were times that tone irritated him so intensely he wanted to grab this new friend and shake him until words and emotions flowed out of him naturally.  Because he was certain there was a wealth of both behind the inscrutable blue gaze and the nearly seamless lips. 

“Have you even pulled out your parrying dagger?  When you’re sober you could beat any one of us, and probably a host of us together, with one hand tied behind your back.”  He smoothed the salve on, careful of his neat handiwork, and laid a piece of linen over it, the salve acting as a sticking plaster as well as sealant for the wound.  “But we’ll call it carelessness then, and have done.”

Athos refused to rise to the bait this time.  “That smell …”  he began, only to trail off, one hand reaching for the locket he wore inside his shirt.  Except the fine cotton lawn shirt had been used to staunch the wound in the immediacy of the moment and now lay atop the pile of dirty clothes awaiting the laundress’s tender ministrations.   Questing fingers met the chain, but the locket, Athos realized, was under him, lying on his side as he was, and Aramis was watching with open interest.  He dropped his hand to the bed. 

“You’re likely smelling violets.”  Aramis, long a student of human nature, saw the eyes go opaque and knew this would not be a moment of revelation, though he could guess at the contents of the locket.  Tréville had mentioned a dead wife – Athos was young to be a widower, but it would certainly explain the missing pieces of his soul if he’d lost a beloved wife at such a tender age. “The salve is a compound of violets and heartsease mixed with olive oil and set with tallow to give it substance.  Also courtesy of Madame Hildegard.”  

Strange that none of them were old, yet neither were they young anymore.  Physical age had little do with the age of the soul, Aramis reflected silently.  “Can you sit up a little?” he requested.

“Move, and I will sit up so you don’t have to bob and weave.”  Athos swung his feet to the floor, wincing as the stitches pulled uncomfortably.  “Porthos,” he began, but the Musketeer was already holding a shirt.

“Thought you might want this when Aramis is done with you.”  Porthos has collected a clean shirt from the cupboard where he’d found the towels.  “There’s food in the other room too.  Serge sent over supper.” 

Athos stopped the swinging locket and lifted both arms so Aramis could wrap the linen bandage around the wound and tie it off. 

Aramis sat back on his heels when he’d finished and Athos allowed Porthos to drop the shirt over his head.  The healer leaned forward again when this was accomplished, placing his hands carefully and lightly on Athos’ knees. 

Aramis could feel the recoil, but did not move his hands.  Like breaking a horse, his brother would have said, the more you touch them, the quicker they get used to it.  He tapped a knee when the blue gaze remained fastened to the hand wrapped around the locket and waited until it came up to meet his own. 

Athos had opacity down to a science, one saw only what he wanted you to see. 

Aramis refused to let it freeze him out.  “I don’t know how familiar you are with medicine, or the cause and effect of a wound like this.  The body cannot make up for the blood you’ve lost on its own, it needs your help, which means you need to eat and sleep like a normal person for a few days at least.  Since, by all appearances, that concept is foreign to you, you’re right, Porthos and I _are_ going to be like a couple of old duenna’s.  Fussing and clucking over you until you are so sick and tired of us, you’ll eat and sleep just to get rid of us.  Or,” he moved his hands to his own knees and rose, slowly, keeping their gazes locked so Athos’ head came up, “you can eat with us now and I can drug your wine and put you to sleep with or without your consent.”  He offered a hand up, just managing to hide his surprise when it was accepted and Athos rose as well, though with a bit less than his usual fluidity. 

“No messing about with swords for several days either,” Aramis admonished.

“If they’re not practicing every day, your Musketeers will regress,” Athos replied evenly.

“Then we’ll have Porthos drill them.  Better yet, you can pair us off and critique, but only from a convenient bench.  You are not allowed to be on your feet all day.”

“What’s the difference between standing and lying down?”

“If you haven’t leant that difference yet,” Aramis, the lady-killer, grinned suggestively, “all I can say is – it comes to all of us eventually.” 

Rather than the not-quite-a-smile inane humor occasionally triggered, the hand went again, without volition, to the locket.  Aramis stifled his sigh and turned the comte toward the doorway.  “Come and eat so I can drug you.” 

Dinner, because Aramis made it so, was a riotous affair after that, with Aramis and Porthos playing one-upmanship as they shared their most ridiculous pranks. 

Athos drank steadily, never thinking that the liquor laced with drugs would put him into a sleep so deep it would likely reawaken the nightmares he had only just managed to chain up in his subconscious. 

What neither Athos, nor Aramis, had considered, was the effect of the combination.  In the midst of the hilarity, Athos told them he’d had a wife. 

 

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: In case you’re interested, there was a real Hildegard von Bingen who lived in the 12th century. She was a German abbess and medieval mystic who composed music and wrote books on all manner of things, including health and nutrition and medicine. Below is the recipe for her salve that Aramis uses in the story._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Hildegard salve  
> • Enough fresh violets or heartsease to produce 4 tbsp. of juice  
> • 1 tbsp. cold pressed olive oil  
> • 1 ¾ oz. sheep's tallow or lard


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recently I ran across a new word I'd never heard before - it was the title of a fic out here by Persis - Reviviscence. I was delighted to make it's acquaintance, though I did have to look it up. Today, I had lunch with it and got to know it personally. The computer crashed last night - sudden black screen, dead as a door nail, all resuscitation attempts failed. A month to replace it if I wanted something similar to the one lying on the table doing the dead cockroach. I was in a panic; three chapters left to post and no way to retrieve them from the cold, dead, no longer beating heart of my best friend. 
> 
> And then after a long sleepless nail biting night - miraculously - the man I was smart enough to marry so many many years ago said - why don't you try a different power cord? Then produced one for me. And voila' - reviviscence! Like Lazarus, though, there is still a finite end somewhere down the road. I hope it's not tomorrow, but just in case it is...
> 
> here follows the remaining three chapters - apologies if there are still errors!

Porthos took it in stride.  The bottle Aramis had been about to drink from slipped from his fingers as though greased, shattering as it hit the floor. 

“What happen’d to ‘er?” Porthos inquired. 

“Wha—“

“What happen’d to ‘er,” Porthos repeated patiently.  “You said you _had_ a wife.”

“She died.”

“Sorry to ‘ear that.  What’d she die from?”

Aramis hopped up quickly, skirting the mess he’d created.  He was a curious as Porthos, but this was not the way to get answers.  “How about if I help you to bed?”  It was more of a command than a question, and Porthos shot him a quizzal look, but subsided at the guilty, burning look Aramis shot back. 

Athos was frowning as though attempting to puzzle out why it was suddenly time to go to bed, or perhaps why he was suddenly spilling secrets he’d had no intention of sharing.  “No,” he said clearly, when Aramis tried to pull him to his feet.  “Tosleepperchance…to dream,” he slurred, then repeated with deliberate articulation, “No.  I do not want to dream.”

“So you are acquainted with the inestimable Bard; I’m not fond of him myself.  If we must have English poets, I prefer John Donne.  No man is an island?”

“Not true,” Athos said, though he allowed Aramis to get his feet under him and pull him up.  “We are all islands of insanity swimming in a sea of malice.  Be careful lest the devil steal your soul, Aramis.  He can transform himself you know, take any guise, even the form of a woman.”

Damn, damn and double damn.  It had not been the disclosure of a wife that had stunned Aramis; rather, it had been the recognition of his own culpability in not considering that the combination of drugs and alcohol might unstop that determinedly silent tongue. 

“I’ve met Old Scratch in that guise myself as few times.  Only a few more steps.  And here we are.  Stop,” Aramis instructed, as he leaned down to throw back the blanket.  “Turn.” Giving this new friend no chance to continue his learned discourse on the evils of the devil.  “Sit.  Now can you lie down?  Easy, easy, don’t rip out my handiwork.”  He slipped an arm beneath the tense shoulders, easing Athos down, then bent to very gently lift his feet to the bed as well, and pull off the boots. 

He drew the blanket over Athos and touched his forehead lightly, murmuring a request that God ease the restless, broken spirit housed in this mortal flesh.  He had pinched out the still-burning candles and turned to go when fingers crept around his wrist.  The grip was neither encompassing nor restraining, but the unexpected touch alone would have held him in place. 

“I … do not … want to dream.” 

Aramis slipped slowly to his knees.   “I am sorry.  I should have thought this through better, put the sleeping potion in something other than wine and not let you drink.  The combination has loosed your tongue in a manner you will despise me for, if you remember this in the morning.  I pray you will not, because I think you were beginning to trust us, just a little, and this will set you back beyond where we started.  Though if it lingers in your subconscious without recognition, that may do even more damage.  God in heaven, what have I done?”  He slid a hand into his hair, dislodging the kerchief Porthos had loaned him.  “I swear to you, Athos, I did not do this on purpose.”  The kerchief proved a useful item for wringing between his hands. 

“I … do not want to dream.”  The despair in the low voiced repetition was so weighty it was a physical presence stalking the room.  “She walks in dreams.”

“Move over,” Porthos said from the doorway.  He set the chair he’d brought from the table next to the bed.  “Move over,” he repeated softly, soothingly.  The apartment was only the two rooms, not large enough for even whispers to go unheard.  “Aramis is going to lie down with you, I’m going to sit here, and we’re not going to let you dream.”  His articulation was as clear and precise as Athos’ had been in that lucid instant when reality had poured itself into the moment with the clarity of a particularly fine wine.  “Aramis knows a thing or two about dreams.  Someday he’ll tell you about Savoy.”  Porthos sat himself down in the chair, kicked back against the wall and crossed his arms over his broad chest.  “At the very least,” he asserted, “you will not be alone with any dreams tonight.”

Porthos’ earthy sort of wisdom was often right on the money.  Savoy was the perfect penance.  Aramis, still on his knees, moved around to the foot of the bed.  “Move this way.”  The bed was shoved up against the wall so he pushed a bare foot toward the front edge.  “I don’t want you lying on your side and pulling at the stitches.” 

It was perhaps a measure of the inhibitions the combination of alcohol and medicinal herbs had lowered that Athos moved without objection or even hesitation.  Aramis, as he slid up the bed, his back against the wall, considered every possible negative consequence of this night’s unconsidered actions. 

He had found no greater satisfaction than in watching living things find freedom again after imprisonment, whether of body or soul, though he would deny with his dying breath that he had found his true calling in coaxing life back into the seriously wounded.  He was a sharp shooter, employed to serve at the pleasure of the king, but he had often wondered if God had enhanced his skills as a healer to balance the dark side of taking lives without compunction. 

He had been taught from a very young age, to preach the gospel of salvation, and been privileged to live among holy men who had lived what they preached.  Though he had chosen to be the king’s soldier rather than God’s, there was ingrained at the very core of him, a sensitivity to suffering that informed who he was in a way he _felt_ , but not even he, with his poet’s heart and minstrel’s voice, could articulate. 

It was a gift – one that left him wretched sometimes – but a gift he could not ignore, for in ignoring it he only tortured himself with what if’s or what might have been’s.  And so he had learned to employee that sensitivity, along with his skills at healing, in the most improbable situations. 

Serving as a Musketeer, he was never bored, for he was not limited to _just_ a sharp shooter, or swordsman, or even healer.  But tonight, it worried him that the healer might have done more harm than good. 

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm debating whether or not to put an Athos angst warning up here, just to deflect the slings and arrows that might follow. But I've written and discarded three - make that four - so I will just say - Athos angst ahead.

He often dreamt of her, though it was always those last moments before he’d ridden away; the forget-me-nots falling from lax fingers, her white gown floating wispy in the wind, dainty shoes peeping from beneath the hem. 

Tonight, with the benediction of the herbs and alcohol coursing warm blood through his frozen heart, confession might have been possible. Tomorrow, in the cold light of day, he knew he would be grateful Aramis had effectively corked the spill of words. 

The Musketeer had expected that he would sleep, and sleep deeply, but he did not, though as promised, neither did he dream.  He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, an arm above his head, the other lying across his belly, thumb tucked into the waistband of his britches. 

Porthos slept soundly, never moving a muscle.  Aramis twitched and fidgeted and once, sat straight up without ever really waking.  Athos tugged at the back of his shirt, to no avail.  Aramis sat for some time with his head in his hands, quivering like a blowing stallion, before slumping down senseless, on his side again, back pressed up against the wall. 

Athos had not ended up at the Musketeer garrison by chance.  Joining the elite guard had been a lifelong dream, one that had fueled his youthful desire to become the best swordsman France had ever known.  Though it had been thwarted, first by his parents, who had been prominent members in the court of Henry IV and Marie de' Medici, then by tutors who had insisted he follow the plan his parents had mapped out for his life, even after their deaths.  And then – by the witchy siren he had taken to wife. 

There was very little Athos did not know about the current company of Musketeers, including details of the Savoy mission that were not general knowledge.  Porthos’ implication that Aramis had a story about Savoy likely meant a first-hand story, which meant the youthful Don Juan had to be one of the two survivors of the massacre, since the other had deserted. 

Athos wondered if seeing the bodies of one’s comrades, slain in their sleep, was any easier than watching the woman one loved be hanged by the neck until dead. 

An interesting dilemma; from whence sprang the guilt in that quarter?  The Musketeer had had no responsibility for the deaths of those men, though it appeared he found it no easier to sleep than Athos.

His own guilt was such a mélange of bits and pieces he could not unravel its beginning or ending.  As the local magistrate it had been his responsibility to investigate and then pronounce sentence on the accused.  He had done so in a cold, unfeeling rage, when out of the murkiness of her misleading lies and protestations of innocence, the truth of the deception she had perpetrated was finally uncovered in its entirety. 

She had been so enamored of her new position as the Comtesse de la Fère, she had reveled in the status of her elevation, though in such a way that it had come across as naive joy, innocent of malice.  She had wanted to be by his side every moment of the day.  And all night long.

He had been naïve himself, not greatly experienced with women, and thus so flattered by her interest and devotion it had never occurred to him to look deeper, to dig beneath the tissue paper thin layers of sophistication and gaiety.  She had thrown back the dark curtains of his home literally and figuratively, opened a door to his soul he hadn’t even known existed, invited sunshine and flowers and the sweet smell of hay into his life. 

He had been truly madly deeply in head-over-heels love from the first moment she’d spoken his name.

Captivated.

Transformed.

A philosopher’s stone transmuting lead into gold. 

They would live forever in one another’s embrace and change the world.  Or at least visit every corner of it.  The Comte and Comtesse de la Fère would take the courts of Europe by storm, entertain the dynastic royalty of India and Asia and dine with the redskins of the America’s in complete accord. 

His brother had tried to tell him – over and over again.  But his ears had been tuned only to her voice.  Her ascendency over him - a thing he had despised in others and mocked piteously - had been absolute.  He had been unable, or unwilling, to see it in himself until his brother had been dead and the shattered mirror of his idyllic life had been mercilessly held up before him. 

Justice had required a life for a life, though even then he had wavered.  She had pleaded piteously from her prison bower:  he was the _only_ one who understood her; how could he throw away their love like this;   she was not what he’d been led to believe; she was a victim of jealous rage; she was being punished for sins she had not committed. 

He might yet have been persuaded, as he’d sat on the floor with his back to the locked door, wise enough not to let anyone else guard it, but in such vulnerable despair the trickle of her voice stricken with tears creeping out to him from the millimeter of space between carpet and door was like a siren song. 

It had been her one and only mistake – when she’d told him she’d done it for them.  She’d realized her blunder quickly, though, and instead of words there had come heart wrenching sobs that had petered out when – he’d supposed – she had finally fallen asleep. 

He had sat on the floor in the hallway neither eating nor sleeping for three days, while proof of her guilt had been gathered with quick and brutal efficiency.  Only four people knew; one was dead by her hand, one had been sent to America to take charge of the de la Fère shipping operations, and one had acted as executioner. 

In those three days she had pushed letter after perfumed letter under the door.  The library probably still reeked of violets, for he had burned every one without a glance, on his return from overseeing justice done. 

Justice though, might have been tempered with compassion, but with his emotions fluctuating so wildly he had been so completely and utterly devastated by her insidious betrayal, in the end, retribution had been the only thing on his mind.  And his mind had been very busy indeed, imagining all the ways he could repay her.  His word was law; whatever punishment he chose to mete out would be dispatched without question and he had considered everything from drawing and quartering to disemboweling.  With the judicious placement of a word here or there, he could have easily planted treasonable evidence, but in the end, his better nature had prevailed. 

At least - in the manner of her execution. 

In the days and months following, reason had fled completely.  He’d honed his sword, packed a bag and, taking only a manservant, set out on horseback to rid himself of her fingerprints on his soul.

It had taken him two years to realize that instead of expunging her, in his anger at his own abasement at her hands he had allowed bitterness to taint all that had once responded to virtue and beauty and grace.  The gaping hole where his heart had once resided was not an empty void; it had gradually become the habitation of malice and spite, the proponent of all that was rancorous and mordant. 

While he had methodically and with considerable success set about achieving a reputation as the finest swordsman on the Continent, he had also learned to shred a character in a sentence or less.  A look from the Comte de le Fère could make or break a reputation; which he had done at the merest whiff of taint about a person, no matter the gender. 

To how many had he passed on his tainted legacy of depression and despair?  How many lives had he ruined in his quest to soothe his own lacerated wounds?  How many lay in the dark this night cursing _him_ as he had cursed _her_? 

He had no expectation of the intercession of grace on his behalf; but he might, if he was very, very lucky, work his way out of this pit he had dug himself into if he could hold it together long enough for the illusion of reality to solidify into something more than its current mirage. 

Perhaps the tacit pact to desist from providing fodder for his inner demons ushered in a new spirit of calm for eventually sleep stole over him and before he could chase it away, he was dreaming.

These were the dreams of his youth, though, where upon his shoulder a fleur-de-lis of polished leather flashed in the middle of a kaleidoscope of streaming sky blue cloaks.  He was at the epicenter of a battle, power coursing through his sword arm such as he had never experienced, for he served with a host of comrades, vanquishing the enemies of the Flower of France. 

Courage flowed through newly thawed veins, and a sense of purpose that rang with the call of honor and duty.  Even in sleep, Athos sensed a new path was opening before him; he had only to seize the courage to follow it.    

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw 'The Return' after this was written and debated, as I was editing this chapter whether or not to make changes based on the show and in the end decided to leave it as it was written. It doesn't quite match up with show canon, but as pointed out, there are other points that don't match up either.


	7. Chapter 7

In the cold light of day, however, inner demons proved not quite as willing to be laid to rest as they had under the influence of the alcohol and herbs.  Athos battled daily to keep the darkness at bay and walk away from the bottle before he was insensible.  But it proved impossible to put it down some nights.  

So he stopped drinking all together. 

When that didn’t work, he tracked down the local chemist and began mixing his own liquid remedy.  Until Aramis realized what he was doing and poured every bottle in his apartment into a bucket, then emptied the bucket out the window and calmly smashed anything that resembled a vessel.  Porthos stood just inside the door, not quite blocking it, but his size alone, and the hands planted on his hips, discouraged any thoughts of escape in that direction.   

“You just poured a two-hundred year old bottle of burgundy out the window, you know,” Athos remarked conversationally from where he leaned against a wall watching the proceedings.  “My grandfather’s father laid that down, bottled from his own vineyard.”

Aramis’s face blanched the color of peeled almonds, though almost immediately rearranged itself to reflect bored indifference.  “I’m sure there’s more where that came from.” He yanked a chair out from under the table.  “Sit down.”

Athos sat, not because he wanted to; a compulsion stronger even than the desire to drink straightened his leaning posture and put his fundament in the appointed chair.  He had been nearly five weeks in the company of these two, and though he would not have admitted to it even under torment by the Spanish Inquisition, he had come to rely on their companionship. 

“I’m disappointed,” Porthos said, “I let Aramis bet Tréville you were worth savin’.”

“Why?” Aramis asked, moving to lean back against the table beside Athos’ seat, crossing his booted feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest.  “Why are you doing this?”

Athos was silent.  Their good opinion of him mattered a great deal and he had no answers to give that could hope to measure up to their standard of honor. 

Aramis nudged the boot closest to his own.  “We’re not here to stand in judgment; we don’t know what principalities have you in thrall.  However, we’ve come to the conclusion that if you are in such torment as to be so hell bent on self-destruction, then we have some ideas for you.”

“For instance,” Porthos leaned his tall frame against the doorjamb, “you could just let one of them puppies run you through.  Easier than falling on your own rapier n’ tryin’ to make it look like an accident.”

“Or,” Aramis suggested, “you could fall off the roof of the Louvre while on duty.”

“Poison’s always good.  Works quicker’n rottin’ your gut with drink.”

“I’ve heard drowning is easy.  Never tried it myself, but I suppose we could find some weights you could tie to your ankles before jumping into the Seine.”

“You could get yerself gored real good.  We’d haveta’ find ya a bull, but that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I’m not sure it’s possible to smother yourself, but you might consider it as an option.”

“Wot about pickin’ a fight with the cardinal’s guards?”

“If you really want to suffer, I know a few ladies of the evening who could give you a good time while they give you the clap.” 

Porthos shook his head.  “Nah, I don’ wanna watch that.  Hard way to die, goin’ crazy-like first.  Now the cardinal’s guards, that’d be som’en to cheer about, since I’m certain you’d take a few out wiv’ ya.”

“Wait!” Aramis jumped up, shoving both hands through his hair, eyes glazed with something that looked like glee.  “Why not just confront the cardinal?  I hear he thinks he’s a wizard with a sword.  He wouldn’t be able to resist a challenge from France’s greatest swordsman!  At least make your death worthwhile!”   

“Now there’s a fittin’ end for a man,” Porthos agreed enthusiastically.  “Quick and fast and still in the service of your country!  Just make sure you get in a killing wound before you let him murder you.”

He had not expected humor, though even thinking that presaged expectations, and he had had no expectation whatsoever.  Humor though, slipped through the cracks of Athos’ armor-plated soul, where lectures and exhortations would have just bounced off. 

He planted his elbows on the table and dropped his forehead to his clenched fists.  Such fierce loyalty in the face of the sad results it had garnered plucked the last vulnerable chord his heart possessed.  He did the only thing he could – produced a rusty chuckle, though it sounded more like a centuries old garden gate creaking open. 

Perhaps if he’d had tears anymore, they might have found an outlet now, but the ones he should have shed long ago had been damned up so fiercely, they had eventually evaporated.  Hands settled on his hunched shoulders and began to knead, thumbs digging deeply and effectively into muscle and tendon, even through the leather of his coat. 

“Athos, we can’t help if you keep shutting us out.”

A chair scraped out across the table.  “An I’m not s’good with rejection.  Don’t take it too well.”

“Why?”  Athos’ reiteration of Aramis’ question was muffled but ingenuous in its childlike resonance.  The hands on his shoulders paused for a second only before resuming with a mastery not even his valet could match. 

“Because,” Porthos said from across the table, quietly tenacious, “ _we_ never once stopped thinkin’ you’re worth savin’.” 

“But we can’t do it without your cooperation,” Aramis tag-teamed without missing a beat.

They were a pair, these two, though a pair of what, Athos could not quite decide.  Comedians certainly, their act was worthy of a stage production; duenna’s definitely, this they had already proved; staunch supporters, though he could not fathom why.

He settled, ultimately, on a determined pair of friends, for there was no question anymore of their steadfastness. 

“Perhaps I am too broken to fix,” he said in that inflexion-less tone Aramis had grown to hate.

A long silence ensued, in which Aramis continued to turn sinew and bone to butter.  “If you truly believe that,” he said, finally, and with utter conviction, “then there is nothing we can do to help.  But there is no inherent evil in you.” It was a statement of fact, meant to close the door decisively on any thoughts in that direction. 

Athos did not think himself inherently evil, just inherently incapable of turning from it when it showed up on his doorstep. Or in the market place.  Or in his bed.  “I cannot undo the wrong I have done.”  

“It is not given to us to change our past, only our future.  And by the way?  It’s the church that tries to make you believe expiation is required, not God.”

“You think you got a past?” Porthos leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table.  “Know anything about the Court of Miracles?  That’s where I grew up.  There ain’t any bit of thievin’, killin’, or whorin’ I dunno about, and not jus’ from watchin’ it, either.  None of us is lily white when it comes to it, but you can’t move forward unless you’re willin’ to let go of that past.”

“How?” Athos whispered.  “How did you let go?  How did you kill those ghosts?”

“By not lettin’ ‘em have any power over me,” Porthos replied promptly.  “I did what I had to do to survive and when I had the chance, I moved on.”

A dry rustle that might have been a cough or a self-deprecating laugh rustled across the table top.  “Survival had nothing to do with what I’ve done.”

“You’re dead wrong about that.”  Porthos pulled his parrying dagger and began to groom his fingernails as though there was nothing more to say on the subject. 

Aramis squeezed the leather-clad shoulders once more before jerking another chair out with his foot.  He sat and leaned forward so he was on eye-level with Athos.  “Porthos is far smarter than anyone gives him credit for, even me sometimes.  Trauma is not always physical, but it leaves its mark nonetheless.  Trust me when I tell you that in my experience, the kind of trauma that leaves us unblemished on the outside takes far longer to heal than a bodily injury.”

“I’m not following.”  Athos pulled out his comte stare, the one that usually had people shaking in their boots, though he already knew Aramis was immune to it.  “Are you implying I am not culpable for my actions because of the state I’ve been in for the last two years?”

Aramis clasped his hands between his knees.  “Are there orders out for your arrest in France, or any other country where you’ve been practicing your depredations for that matter?”

“No.”

“Then who is judging your actions; who is calling you to account?” 

In the right hands – or the wrong ones – silence could be a weapon.  Occasionally silence spoke volumes.  Sometimes it covered hurt; sometimes it was the entryway to ecstatic joy.  Silence, outside of the religious experience, was rarely just silence for the sake of quiet. 

This silence had a healing quality to it.

“It does not feel … right, somehow, to be forgiven without … reparation.” 

Aramis did not answer right away, letting the curative quiet unwind a bit further from its spindle.  When he rolled it up and tucked away what was left, he laid a hand on Athos’ shoulder.  “Is that not the definition of grace, my friend?”  He paused, but only to allow the affirmation time to sink a few roots into the mixed soil it was trying to penetrate.  “None of us are worthy, but we are all worth some effort.” 

“What we wanna know now is,” Porthos rasped, “are you gonna make it worth our effort, or are ya gonna continue to throw it back in our faces?”

Athos appreciated the honest approach.  “That would make me a very poor sportsman.”

“Yes, it would,” Porthos agreed.  “And I ain’t seen anything resembling poor sportsmanship in ya either.  So what’s it gonna be?”

Aramis sat back. 

Another long silence while they watched Athos’ internal debate ripple through clenched muscles and trembling fingers.

“Do you want the whole story?”

“Nope, that ain’t necessary either.  All we want is a genuine commitment to the future, not some half-assed make believe attempt at it.”

Aramis rose, his footsteps echoing across the bare wood floor, then turning back again.  “To that end,” he upended a sack on the table, shaking out a piece of dark brown leather entangled in a plethora of buckles and straps, and drew his chair up to the table, “we have a proposition for you.” 

He set to work untangling the various bits across the top of the table, so a buckled elbow guard decorated with a stylized fleur-de-lis surrounded by small studs was turned up, followed by a long strap attached to another buckle ornamented with silver conches, and finally, a layered piece of plate armor designed as much to announce one’s allegiance as to provide protection for the shoulder not wielding a sword.

“Porthos and I debated laying it out on the table and having at it with our swords after we picked it up from the leatherman’s shop.  It looks a little too shiny, I know, but we expect it won’t be long before it’s as battered as ours.”   He studied the pauldron thoughtfully.  “We’ll have to take your coat back to the leatherman, too, and have him mortise a buckle into the shoulder.” 

Athos’ fists dropped to the table.  The pauldron was indeed gleaming, the leather buffed and polished to a high sheen.  Where Aramis’ fleur-de-lis had been burned directly into the leather and Porthos’ cut out and affixed to the armor, this one had been fashioned on the shape of a shield so the piece was raised by the thickness of the leather.  It was also in the image of the flower, complete with blossoms, that represented the monarchy of France.  The leather around the sigil had been worked into stylized indentations and raised swirls evocative of sword grips. 

Of their own accord, Athos’ fingers reached to touch tentatively, then caress with a reverence Aramis considered ought to be reserved for the fairer sex. 

“Tréville?”

“Says if you still _want_ to pay for it, you can - the coffers are always empty - but that you’ve earned it and payment is not necessary.”  Aramis shared a quick look with Porthos since Athos had eyes only for the pauldron.  “He’s received permission from the king as well, though he had to tell him who you really are.  If something were to happen to you and we couldn’t prove who you were, your lands would go into escheat.  Tréville thought you might want to pass them on to an offspring someday.” 

Athos said nothing to this.  To deny a desire for an heir, something every nobleman strove to produce, was to open that can of worms Aramis had effectively closed last night.  It was not a lack of trust in his two companions that held him back, rather, he did not trust himself yet, with the bitter truth, and so he kept his mouth shut. 

“We did suggest to the captain that he ask the king to keep your identity confidential.  But the king is a bit capricious.”  Porthos trotted out one of his much loved words, grinning bashfully.  “Even if it gets back the garrison though, _our_ people will keep their mouths shut.”   

“So …” Athos’ gaze lifted, moving searchingly from Aramis to Porthos and back to Aramis.  “I am … officially … a Musketeer?”

“Well – yes,” Aramis hedged.

“You gotta kick the jug bitten habit before Tréville will take you on as a full Musketeer.”  Porthos had no time for subtlety, it was all or nothing, and nothing wasn’t going to cut it in this situation.   “We wanted you to know there’s somethin’ worth it, waitin’ on the other side.”

“You already know it won’t be easy,” Aramis said quietly.  “But we also want you to know we will do whatever is necessary to get you through it.  If that means holding the chamber pot while you puke, we’ll be there.  If it’s changing sheets while you sweat it out, we’ll do it.  If it means guarding your dreams every night, Athos, we will be with you through whatever it takes.”

“If you will let us.”

“Well.” Athos looked around at the empty shelves and cupboards, since he’d had nothing but alcohol on or in any of them.  “It appears you have already set me on the path.”  He rose and reached down to the touch the bit of carved and molded leather representing a lifelong dream.  “You two had this done?”  Despite the inflection, it was not a question, since he knew the answer already.  “I could not have chosen better if I’d had it made to my own design.”  When he looked up again, he did not lift his head.  He met each gaze in turn, though, and let his silence speak volumes before he said simply, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Porthos said gruffly.  He rose, caught Aramis’ gaze and stepped away from the table, extending an arm to the center of the room. 

Aramis rose immediately, stepped around the table and stretched an arm out too.  “Come” he said, indicating Athos should join them with a tilt of his head.  “Put your hand over Porthos’,” he instructed, placing his own hand over Athos’ when he had complied.  “And by way of initiation, now that you are one of us, you should know the motto of the Musketeers …” 

He waited for Porthos to intone solemnly, “All for one--”

“And one for all,” Aramis and Porthos declaimed triumphantly. 

“You should both be on the stage,” Athos observed tartly, though he did not step back until both his brothers had dropped their hands. 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. All characters and setting belong to BBC America, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._
> 
>  
> 
> _P.S. Dear Reader: I must also give a nod here to ysande's story, 'Trigger Points', that I read last evening - it was the last thing I did before the computer died, but it was laugh out loud funny and cute and made me laugh, too, that we share the opinion that Aramis is good with his hands. If you enjoy humor and a hurting Athos, you'll get a kick out of her story!_
> 
> _A thousand thank you's to all those who've read through to the end, left kudos and/or comments, and just generally spent time in my little corner of the fandom. It's been my very great pleasure to spend time with you!_


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